"Sam, how can you be so dramatic?" His voice boomed through the speaker. "You've worried your parents sick running off like this."
I didn't answer.
"I'm not trying to lecture you," he continued, softening. "But you're hurting your mother. She's a doctor; saving lives is her calling. How can you blame her for doing her duty?"
He rambled on, painting a picture of Mom's impossible position. "She just felt sorry for the kid. She wanted to save a life. As her daughter, you should support her."
I waited for him to take a breath, then signaled my roommates I was okay.
"Uncle Richard." My voice went flat. "Do you remember what the doctor said when I was diagnosed at twelve?"
"I remember..." He trailed off.
"He said twenty-four was the absolute deadline for surgery. If I didn't get a heart by then, my body wouldn't survive the transplant." I let the silence hang. "I'm twenty-four now. Half the year is already gone."
He said nothing.
"I waited twelve years. I finally found a donor—ninety-two percent match. And my own mother handed it to someone else with her own hands."
Still nothing.
"To her, medical ethics matter more than her daughter's life."
"But Sam—"